


The Last Case of Dr. John Watson

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Poisoning, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6628651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If he really had less than twenty-four hours to live, was it too much to ask that it be sunny?  Being poisoned and soaked to the skin on the same day seemed to John a bit of cosmic overkill.<i></i></i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock's only hope of saving John is finding the antidote before it's too late. But where does he start? </p><p>Set loosely in Series 1, before The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Case of Dr. John Watson

**_11 am_ **

If he really had less than twenty-four hours to live, was it too much to ask that it be sunny?  Being poisoned and soaked to the skin on the same day seemed to John a bit of cosmic overkill.

Not that he believed the doctors. Yes, he’d been injected with  _something_ while waiting for a cab, shivering as the rain soaked through his anorak and yes, his stomach had started to ache half an hour later. It was almost as bad as the summer he was twelve and ate a dozen dodgy sausage rolls nicked from the shop on High Street. But it was a giant leap from a sore belly to actually dying. No matter what the tests concluded. No matter how concerned Lestrade and Molly looked or how puzzled the expression on Mycroft’s face. (Sherlock had remained uncharacteristically silent, slouched against the treatment room’s only window, staring at his phone). Things like being shot with poison-filled darts in the middle of London just didn’t happen. Especially not to him.

“They do happen,” Lestrade argued. “That Russian diplomat –”

“Litvinenko,” Mycroft filled in. “Polonium-210 in his tea. A very unpleasant death. Whatever you were injected with, John, it does not appear to be radioactive. Less interesting than polonium perhaps, but quicker acting if your symptoms are any indication.”

John shook his head. “Bollocks. I’ve got stomach ache and nausea. Low-grade fever. It’s food poisoning.”

“Your liver enzymes are off the chart. You’re pale and sweaty –” Molly said.

“We tried a new Thai place last night. You lot have read too many spy novels.”

“The text would suggest otherwise,” Mycroft said. He stood stiffly at the door, doing his best not to touch anything in the room.

John had to admit that the text, sent to his phone half an hour after he’d been _darted_ (was that even a word?), was worrying.  He suggested it was proof of nothing except an over-developed sense of the dramatic on the part of whoever sent it. Mycroft argued the text was compelling evidence that John hadn’t stepped accidently into the path of a poisoned dart.

 

_One for sorrow, two for joy_

_Three for poison, four to destroy_

_Five for a doctor who won’t grow old_

_Six for a death long foretold_

_Seven for Heaven, eight for Hell_

_Nine for his lover’s sad farewell_

_Ten for the Devil himself._

 

On the whole, Sherlock’s familiarity with Mother Goose ( _of course I know what nursery rhymes are, John, I was a child once_ ) was perhaps more shocking to John than being shot in leg with a poison dart.

“And you didn’t see who did it?” Lestrade asked. For possibly the twentieth time.

John sighed. He knew this part by heart now. “It was raining hard. The street was crowded. I felt a prick – like a bee sting – in my calf. I bent down to look and pulled a small dart from my trousers. I got into the cab and went back to Baker Street. And now you have all concluded that I have been fatally poisoned. You do know how mad that sounds?”  

He wouldn’t have gone to hospital at all if Sherlock hadn’t insisted. He’d taken one look at the dart and hurried a limping, protesting John into a cab and they headed to Barts. Molly met them at the entrance and he handed off the dart to her and led John into A&E while loudly demanding a full toxicology screen. John had just wanted to go home to bed and he would have, if he hadn’t spent the next half hour hunched over the toilet like a drunken teen-ager. That was two hours ago.

Okay, he was sick. He would admit to being sick.

His stomach cramped again, worse than before, and he doubled over, fighting waves of nausea and dizziness. “Jesus bloody Christ,” he hissed through the pain. He closed his eyes and felt a prick in his arm and for a short, stupid minute he thought it was another dart and he tried to pull away, but then he felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder and Sherlock’s voice in his ear, whispering to him shakily that he would fix this.

That’s when he knew for sure he must be dying.

 

 

The shot helped. The charge nurse shooed everyone from the room except Sherlock who refused to leave. Over the next half hour, the pain in John’s belly went from a paralysing nine to a manageable two. Sherlock retreated back to the window, staring outside. It had started to rain again.

“So what do we do now?” John asked.

Sherlock turned and picked up his coat from the chair.  “ _We_ don’t do anything. I’ve made several enquiries and I expect to hear –”

“I’m not just going to sit here and wait to die.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, John. No doubt I will discover the identity of your attacker in sufficient time for the doctors to—”

“What are the chances of that? You must have calculated the odds.”

Sherlock was impatient, “They are falling precipitously with each minute you keep me from leaving.”

“I’m coming with you. Admit it, this is the most interesting case we’ve had in months.”

A ghost of a smile flashed across Sherlock’s face. “A nine, at least.”

“Then it’s settled.  For as long as I can manage it, we do this together. I need to get dressed, hand me my trousers.” He reached back to untie the hospital gown.

Sherlock looked at a spot just past John’s head.

“Where are my trousers?”

“At the lab –”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock.  Your big genius brain didn’t think I might need my bloody trousers?”

Sherlock frowned. “I thought—”

“Just give me my coat.” John retied the gown and slid off the bed. Stepped barefoot into his trainers. At least they had let him keep his pants.

“It’s raining. And you’re . . . I don’t advise . . .”

“Shut up.”

 

Mycroft had offered Sherlock the use of a car (big, black and ridiculously comfortable) and driver (big, pale and rather frightening) for the duration. Sherlock accepted quickly and appeared (almost) grateful to his brother. John’s world truly had gone mad.

“Nice outfit, sir,” the driver pronounced solemnly as he held the car door open for John. “I’ll turn up the heat, shall I?”

“Don’t be cheeky, Banks,” Sherlock said. “Take us home.”

****

**_1 pm_ **

**_20 hours left_ **

 

The flat was dim, the curtains still drawn over the big windows. John switched on the lamp by the door. “I’m going to put the kettle on and get dressed. Then you can tell me your brilliant plan.” His mother had always claimed that there were few things that couldn’t be made better by a cup of strong tea. She also believed that fairies lived in the woods behind their house and that the BBC listened to their conversations through the wireless.

When he came downstairs wearing jeans and his favourite jumper, the olive green one with the holes in the elbows he always meant to have patched, Sherlock was in his chair, John’s open laptop balanced on his knees.

Sherlock looked up and rolled his eyes. “Really, you chose _that_ jumper?”

“I might as well be comfortable. The kettle’s boiling.”

“Yes.” He went back to typing.

“I always wondered what it would take for you to make the tea yourself. Good to know I can cross _John dying_ off the list.”

“You were poisoned, not crippled.”

He made two cups of tea (the expensive brand his sister had sent him for Christmas that he’d been saving for . . . what exactly?) and carried one out to Sherlock.  He left the other cup on the counter – he’d tried to take a sip but his stomach had other ideas.

Sherlock’s fingers flew over the keys. He nodded toward the table and John set the teacup to the side and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder. He recognized the names of the files – cases he had written up for his blog. Some published, some waiting to be, some never to be.

He turned and sat in his chair, aware that Sherlock was watching from over the top of the computer. He tried to remember what a nonchalant posture looked like. He crossed his legs, felt a twinge in his chest, and sat up straighter – rubbing his palms on the sides of the chair.

“Stop fidgeting.” Sherlock hands paused above the keyboard.

“Well, you’ve got my laptop.”

Sherlock sighed. “Use mine.”

“Yours? Really? I can use yours? This is dire indeed.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued typing. John folded his hands in his lap. He stared at Sherlock’s head. He looked at the picture above the fireplace. Unfolded his hands. Sighed.

A loud ping stopped Sherlock’s typing. They both looked toward the window. Another loud ping followed by an even louder whistle compelled Sherlock out of the chair.

“Finally.” He sat the computer in the chair and moved to the window.

“Finally what?”

“Progress, I hope.” Sherlock went to the door and John got up and went to the window.

He looked down and saw a young girl lobbing stones at the window. When she saw him staring at her, she raised her hand in the air and gave him the finger. He turned to Sherlock who was disappearing down the stairs. “You could teach them to use the knocker, you know.”

 

Charlotte Sinclair, or Dark Raven, as she asked to be called, sat in John’s chair, sipping John’s tea. Sherlock paced between the door and the table. John sat in Sherlock’s chair, trying not to notice the girl’s dirty fingers wrapped around the teacup. The way her leg was always in motion, the sores on her arms, her perfectly straight teeth.

“You said it was important,” she said in an accent she must have picked up from _Coronation Street_ or _EastEnders_. It was as if she had swallowed every dialect from here to York and this was the result.

“Go on,” Sherlock prompted.

“It weren’t me that saw it first – someone showed Zed and he showed me. I promised to give him half of whatever –“

Sherlock took a breath. “What exactly do you know?” John gave him extra points for not shaking the information from her.

“It’s not what I know exactly – it’s more like what we saw . . . seen.” She picked up her phone, swiped the screen and held it in front of Sherlock.

“What is it?” John asked.

Charlotte answered first. “It’s a YouTube vid of some little kid. Not saying nothing.”

Sherlock sat on the arm of the chair beside John, tapped the screen and showed him. The boy on the screen looked seven or eight – curly black hair, small round face, white polo shirt under a green sweatshirt. The boy smiled and picked up a large piece of poster board and held it in front of him for thirty seconds. It read:

 

**_Tick Tock_ **

 

“What’s this got to do with me?” John said.

“Look at the title of the video,” Sherlock answered.

John looked. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, what I said,” Charlotte said. She finished the tea and carried the empty cup to the sink. There was a teenager with good manners buried somewhere under all the eyeliner and tattoos. She leaned against the kitchen table and looked at John. “It got posted a couple hours ago – right after he put out the word.” She lifted her chin towards Sherlock. “He’s clever, Doc. I wouldn’t worry too much. He’ll take care of you. Same as he watches out for us.” She picked her bag up from the floor and slung it over her shoulder. She stood and looked at Sherlock.

“Your wallet is on the dresser in my room,” Sherlock said to John. “It contains two twenties and one ten pound note – give it to her.”

“Go crazy – it’s your inheritance you’re spending.” John stood too quickly and the room tilted sideways. He held onto the back of the chair and waited for the room to settle.

While he paid Charlotte, he heard Sherlock on the phone.  “He posted a video on YouTube – called it _The Last Case of Dr. John Watson_. I’m sending you the link. The user’s name was _gamemaster221_. No spaces.” Sherlock paused. “Lestrade’s team is going through my old cases – looking at anyone who was just released from prison, that sort of thing. I believe he –” 

John walked Charlotte out. He locked the door behind her and slowly climbed the stairs back to the flat, sweating and breathing hard. He arrived just in time to hear Sherlock shouting, “Of course this is about me!” He swore and threw the phone against the sofa and it bounced onto the floor. 

John stood in the doorway, trying to get his breath, trying to ignore the fire raging in his abdomen. He straightened and walked carefully to the sofa.  He lay down and scrubbed both hands across his face. Maybe he should’ve stayed in hospital, bloody lot of good he was doing here. Sherlock’s phone vibrated on the floor beside him and he leaned over to pick it up. Sherlock motioned for him to hand it over but John shook his head. “It’s Lestrade,” he mouthed and answered it.

John watched Sherlock tap his fingers impatiently against the arm of the chair. When he  hung up, Sherlock said, “And?”

“He thinks he might have something. Drug dealer named Vic Bellamy. You helped Lestrade shut him down a few years back. He made lots of threats during the trial. ”

“And?”

“He got released from Pentonville three months ago. Does any of this sound familiar?”

“Deleted.”

“Undelete, then. Lestrade wants us to meet him at the station.”

 

Greg pushed his mobile across the desk. He hated the hope he heard in John’s voice. Wished he felt the same. Vic Bellamy was a shite lead. But after two hours of poring over old cases, it was the only lead they had. He picked up the file and tried to find a sentence in it that would make him believe Bellamy was the one who poisoned John.

First nicked at 13 – held up three old hens coming out of Evensong. He flipped fast through all the early years and stopped at the attempted murder of his partner – with a dart. That could be promising. If it wasn’t during a fucking dart game in a pub in Dartmouth. The guy lost an eye and Bellamy did two months.

His phone vibrated across the papers. Molly.

“Tell me something good.”

“I sent you the preliminary results.”

“And . . .”

“And it’s not good. At first I thought the compound was synthetic since it didn’t match anything we’d seen before – but now I’m not sure. It looks like an aflatoxin but seems faster acting than most of the published studies I can find.”

“English, yeah?” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “Anything we can use? Like a fingerprint on the dart, maybe a chemical map to the whereabouts of these arseholes? I’ve seen Sherlock pinpoint a suspect to within a block just by scraping dirt off a pair of trainers.”

“We’re not all Sherlock, are we?”

“Sorry. It’s just I’m –”

“We all are,” she snapped. She paused and cleared her throat. “I rang one of my old professors – he’s spent most of his career studying aflatoxins, I’m waiting for him to ring me back. I can say that based on the concentration of the residue in the dart and John’s symptoms, our original twenty-four estimate may be optimistic.”

Greg closed his eyes. “Fuck, Molly. Have you told them?”

He heard Molly take a breath.

“I thought maybe you could . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call Sherlock.” Greg resisted the urge to toss his mobile through the window. “Anything else? Don’t most poisons have antidotes?”

“In films, maybe. There are several treatments that have been tried – but usually on patients exposed to a much lower concentration. Vitamin A and N-acetylcysteine have been effective in some cases. Dr. Franklin can try it but I doubt . . .  If it is synthetic, then I suppose it’s possible that whoever designed the poison also designed an antidote.  This is all in my report.”

“Will I be able to make sense of it?”

Again, he heard Molly hesitate.

“Molly? What is it? Can’t be any worse than ‘sorry mate – you got less than a day to live.’”

When Molly spoke, her voice was stronger. “It’s just that . . . how certain are you that this is about Sherlock?”

“You know him. I’d say it was a fair chance he’s pissed off someone who has the knowhow to manage this, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I know that, but it’s just that the initial test results were weird.”

“Define weird.”

“The toxin injected into John wasn’t 100% pure. We detected heroin in the mix . . .”

Greg scrubbed his eyebrows. This was ridiculous. “Molly, can you give me something I can actually work with?”

“The heroin. It’s definitely from Afghanistan.”

“So we should look in Afghanistan?”

“No, I mean . . . well, John’s been to Afghanistan and  . . .”

Greg saw Anderson walking toward his office. “Yeah, okay Molly. I’ll look into it. We’ll check out John, too. Although I’m not sure what good it’ll do. Let me know anything else. I’ll be on my mobile.”

He clicked the phone off and looked up. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a location on Bellamy. Hotel in Battersea.”

Greg stood and reached back for his coat. “Great. Let’s go.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“We’ll call him from the car. I’d rather get there first, wouldn’t you?”

 

John and Sherlock beat Lestrade to the address in Battersea by a good ten minutes. John recognised the building as soon as they pulled up. A month ago, he and Sherlock had spent two days that felt like two weeks sitting in the lobby, tracking the comings and goings of Rhys Davies, counterfeiter and former coal miner from Pontypridd. _The_ _Case of the Miscreant Miner_ John had planned to call it. Sherlock called it a fucking waste of time.

The place had not improved. Old men still dozed in worn armchairs, and one twitched as John passed, like a dog dreaming of rabbits. The smell of stale cigarette smoke, dirty bodies and something John imagined was regret still permeated the lobby. A woman lazily passed a dirty mop over the floor, leaving swirling patterns of drying grime in its wake.   
  
The only thing new was the desk clerk. He sat behind a wire grill, enveloped in the smoke of a fag that dangled precariously off his lower lip. He scarcely raised his head from his magazine to tell them they would find Vic Bellamy in Room 205. Ten quid would get them the key, he added.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Lestrade?” John asked.

“He’ll catch up.”

John got as far the landing before he had to stop. He waved at Sherlock to go ahead, but Sherlock paused and waited, one open hand trailing behind him. If Sherlock noticed the tremor in John’s hand, he didn’t say. The tremor was new, symptom number twelve if John were counting, which he wasn’t.

_Which he was._

The door wasn’t locked and they let themselves in.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Sherlock repeated. “Fuck.” He slammed his open fist against the door.

Vic Bellamy lay on the crumpled sheets, face up, eyes open, arms outspread, greasy grey hair fanned out on the pillow around him. An open envelope of white powder and a bent spoon lay on the nightstand. A needle, half full with what John guessed was heroin, protruded from his left arm _._

John was going to be sick. Again. He left the room and found the toilet at the end of the hall. When he came back, the sour taste of bile lingering in his mouth, he watched as Sherlock pocketed the envelope. John coughed and Sherlock turned and looked at John, his eyes sad and full of something that ached like a bruise.

Sherlock sank into the only chair in the room and leaned forward, head in his hands. John rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and felt him lean into him. “Sorry,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking. “Sorry.”

When Lestrade appeared at the door, John watched as Sherlock’s features realigned themselves into stone. The moment had passed; Sherlock shook him off and went to ring Mycroft.

****

**_4 pm_ **

**_Seventeen hours left_ **

They headed back to Barts. John needed more anti-nausea medicine. Molly needed to identify what killed Bellamy. They all needed to feel like they were getting somewhere. Presumably Sherlock needed something too, but he wasn’t talking. Lestrade’s team had found no new possibilities and the last conversation with Mycroft was not what either of them wanted to hear. No chatter. No leads.

John’s phone vibrated and he tugged it awkwardly out of his left pocket with his right hand. He’d been keeping his left hand tucked under his leg. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. John slid the phone open, read the text and handed it to Sherlock. “Another one.”

_Wee Johnny Watson_

_Runs through the town,_

_Upstairs and downstairs_

_In his nightgown._

_Rapping at the windows,_

_Crying through the lock,_

_Say good-bye to all your friends,_

_For now it’s four o'clock._

Sherlock forwarded the text to someone – Mycroft most likely – and handed the phone back to him.

John set the phone between them. “It makes no sense. Who is he? And don’t take this the wrong way, but why me and not you? I’m the _nice_ one. You’d think if he went to all this trouble to set it up, he’d want you to know why – especially since we’ve got what?”  He looked at the phone. “Seventeen hours. Seventeen hours until it won’t matter why.” John rubbed his thigh, which was starting to cramp.

Sherlock turned to John. “It will always matter why.” He took out his own phone and texted something short. “And you do not have seventeen hours. I will not allow it.”

John wished he felt as sure. Usually, when Sherlock proclaimed something, no matter how preposterous, John could be sure it was a fact. Or that Sherlock would make it a fact. This time, though – when he could actually feel his body shutting down –

“Stop that.”

John looked at Sherlock. “What?”

“Doubting me. Doubting us. Wallowing.”

“I am not wallowing . . . bloody hell, if I can’t wallow now, then when?”

“You can wallow all you want when you are at home recovering.”

“I wish I had your faith.”

Sherlock snorted. “Faith. You of all people should know faith is irrelevant. What we need is a line of inquiry – a misstep – a small deviation in his plan. And we will find it.”

John closed his eyes against the wave of nausea. He bent over and tried to breathe. Sherlock paused in his monologue and laid a hand on John’s back.

“We’re almost there.” Sherlock rubbed John’s back. “Is this helping?”

John smiled through his grimace. “If I say yes, will you feel better?”

“I was only asking.”

Sherlock removed his hand and crossed his arms in front of him. John thought that was better. He didn’t need a kinder, gentler Sherlock. He needed a fucking mad Sherlock.

“They say it’s more difficult for the one left behind,” Sherlock said.

John chuckled and sat up straight, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ll believe that when I hear it from someone who’s gone first.”

**_5 pm_ **

**_Sixteen hours left_ **

Molly handed the GC printout to Sherlock. “It was definitely heroin. More than enough to kill Bellamy.”

“Was it murder?” John asked.

Molly shuffled through her files. She’d avoided eye contact with him since he and Sherlock had come to the lab looking for answers. John recognised that look from Afghanistan – the helpless guilt of the living in the face of the dying.

John touched her arm and she stepped back, startled. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Molly. You’re doing fine.”

She nodded, her eyes tired and sad.

“Do you think Bellamy was murdered?” John repeated.

She hesitated. “You mean did someone else inject it? I can’t say. Not yet, in any case. But he had no other injection marks, so it’s possible. The fingerprint results haven’t come back yet.  I estimate he died three to four hours before you found him.”

“So after John was poisoned,” Lestrade said.

No one wanted Bellamy to be the one who poisoned John—if he was, any chance of finding out what John had been injected with likely died with him. A search of the hotel room had turned up nothing useful. No mobile, no laptop, no items helpfully labeled “CLUE.”

Molly looked at Sherlock. “I ran a test on the heroin in Bellamy’s syringe. The spectral analysis—”

“Bellamy is no longer relevant,” Sherlock snapped. He turned and left.

“Sorry. He’s not used to feeling helpless,” John said. He stood unsteadily. “Dr. Franklin’s waiting for me. If Sherlock decides to make an appearance, can you tell him where I am?”

 

Fifteen minutes later, he’d received one shot for the pain and another for the nausea and provided Dr. Franklin with more blood samples. The diagnosis? Still dying.

“You’d be more comfortable if you stayed here,” he told John. “We can do a better job of managing the pain. Is there someone we can call for you?”

“Not yet,” John said. “I’ll just lie here for a bit, until the meds kick in.”

Dr. Franklin nodded and laid one hand briefly on John’s arm before leaving. Translation: _I can’t help you, but at least I feel bad about it._ How many times had John done the same thing to his patients?

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Was there someone he should call? Harry, maybe. Probably. But not until . . . later. He felt a bit guilty he didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to hear her awkward attempts at saying something heartfelt and meaningful. No doubt he’d end up trying to make _her_ feel better. In any case, they’d been saying good-bye to each other since they’d left home for Uni, he’d be happy to leave it at that. The only person that really mattered was –

Where the hell was he?

Being with Sherlock was the first thing in years that had made any sense to him – he’d known from the first night that if he didn’t hold onto it, he’d slip back into the mire of his everyday life filled with bad decisions and solitary dinners.

He remembered everything that happened that first night – shooting the cabbie, the Chinese dinner after, the walk through the empty streets back to Baker Street, the slow climb up the stairs to the flat, the slower fall into the realisation that this was what he’d been waiting for.

_At the top of the stairs, Sherlock pushed him up against the wall, and held him there with his weight. He was close enough that John could feel his breath on his lips. And then Sherlock was kissing him, his lips soft, warm, and there was something practiced about that kiss.  John brought his hands up and Sherlock held him against the wall a little less gently, like a warning, but John wasn't trying to get away. He fisted Sherlock's shirt and turned it into a real kiss. He slid his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, pushed his hips forward. Sherlock made a sound in his throat, and suddenly he wasn't all steady and sure against John. He dragged John close, and kissed him a little less smooth, a little more frantic . . ._

That was two months ago.

He scrubbed a hand across his face and tried to feel the pain meds working. They weren’t. He tried to imagine scenarios that would end with this turning out well. He couldn’t. For a brief second he thought of Sherlock, sitting alone at Baker Street, staring at his empty chair with a needle full of Bellamy’s heroin in his arm. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up. It wasn’t easy but he managed to swing his legs off the bed. He gripped the sheets and touched his feet on the floor. He turned to the door and  saw Sherlock standing there, watching him.

He let go of the bed and stood, a bit unsteady. “If you even think of using it, I will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Sherlock frowned. He walked a step into the room and took John’s arm. John wanted to wriggle away, but he knew he’d fall on his face, so he leaned into Sherlock. “I mean it – I will not be an excuse for you to fuck up your life.”

Sherlock ignored him and led him out of the room.  

“Where are we going?”

“Back to school.”

 

The drive to Orchard Lane Primary School in Hackney should have taken twenty minutes. Instead it took a long forty minutes in rush hour traffic.  Sherlock had found the boy who was holding up the message in the YouTube video.

“How did you . . .?” John asked.

“I didn’t. Donovan did. She lives nearby and recognized the crest on the boy’s sweatshirt. She did make it clear, however, that her intention was to help you, not me. She sent the video to the head teacher. The child is called Ronan Pearce.”

“It’s half six. Won’t everyone be gone by now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am concerned by your situation, John, not incapacitated. There is a panto of some sort this evening. The boy will be there with his mother.”

“Maybe you should let me talk to him. You can be rather –“

“Yes, fine. Fine.”

Sherlock spent the next twenty minutes tapping his fingers against his thigh and scrolling through his phone.  John recognised that it wasn’t a good sign that Sherlock was willing to spend an hour following up on a lead that Donovan or Anderson could easily have handled by phone.

Sitting there watching Sherlock’s hands, lightheaded from the poison and his own frightened thoughts, he tried not to think about how those hands had felt buried in his hair, fingers  twisting, pulling him close  . . .

He tried to sit up straighter and brushed nothing from his trouser leg. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock scrubbed his own face, letting out a heavy sigh.  

“No wallowing, remember?” John said.

“I’m not. I just –” He blinked at him, and looked back out the window, one hand resting on the seat between them.

John closed his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and swallowed hard. He was worried his voice would shake. “Yeah, I know.”

Sherlock turned his hand over and twined his fingers with John’s.

****

**_7 pm_ **

**_Fourteen hours left_ **

 

Ronan wore a pirate’s striped jumper and a patch over one eye. “It’s Peter Pan, we’ve been practicing for ages.” He pushed the eye patch up into his hair.

John asked him about making the video. Ronan was quiet.

“Just tell these men the truth, Ronan,” his mother prompted. “You’re not in any trouble.”

“I never saw him before yesterday. He gave me ten quid to hold up the sign. I thought it was daft, but I never had ten quid before. I don’t have to give it back, do I?””

John smiled and shook his head. “No. Do you remember what he looked like?”

He shrugged. “Like a grown-up.”

When John stood to leave, Ronan dug into his pocket. “I almost forgot.  He said if you came asking, I was to give you this.” He glanced at Sherlock who was standing at the window and lowered his voice. “Not the tall one, he said, just to you.” He held out a crumpled bit of lined paper.

John took it and Ronan stared at him, his head tilted to one side. “Are you really a soldier?”

“I was. Not anymore though. I’m a doctor now. Why?”

“My dad was a soldier. He’d dead now.”

“I’m sorry,” John said and Ronan ran back to his mother.

“I’ve got to get him backstage,” she said. “If there’s anything else . . .”

John and Sherlock were almost at the front door when Sherlock stopped. “I am bloody thick.” He pointed at a chair by the front door. “Wait there,” he said and ran back towards the auditorium.

John sank into the chair. He unfolded the crumpled paper and tried to focus on the words. He added blurred vision to his catalogue of symptoms.

 

_Who killed Captain John?_

_I, said the Sparrow,_

_with my bow and arrow,_

_I killed Captain John_

_Who saw him die?_

_I, said the soldier,_

_with my little eye,_

_I saw him die._

 

He leaned his head back against the wall. There was something familiar about Ronan, but nothing he could put his finger on. Maybe he’d come into his clinic once with his mother or sat opposite him on the Tube ride home. It was one of those puzzles that your brain works out on its own and the solution comes to you days later in the middle of shaving or drinking your tea.  _Guess I’ll take this one to the grave then._

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out – Molly’s number. Probably trying to find Sherlock.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“John, it’s Molly. Do you have a minute?”

John laughed weakly. “Yeah, it’s about all I have.” There was a silence and he kicked himself. “Are you looking for Sherlock?”

“No, it’s you I want to talk to. I tried telling Sherlock and Greg, but . . .”

“Molly, it’s fine. Just tell me.”

“You know there was a trace of heroin in the dart? Your dart.”

“Not my dart exactly, but go on.”

“All heroin is basically the same. It’s the concentration and impurities that differ from sample to sample.  I only noticed because I ran your sample a few hours before the Bellamy sample. The profiles are the same, John. Exactly the same. I ran every control I could think of.” She paused and took a breath.

John struggled to understand what she was saying. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. I also rang someone I know at SOCA. He said that the odds of these two heroin samples being identical are remote. The supply in London is always changing. They sell to distributors in small batches to make sourcing the heroin more difficult.”

“That’s all good, but it’s not the heroin that’s going to kill me.”  

She took a nervous sounding breath. “Sherlock and Greg dismissed Bellamy as a dead end. But I don’t think he is.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to him.”  He wasn’t convinced, but Sherlock loved an anomaly. “What about that professor of yours? Did he get back to you?”

“Not yet. I’ve left more messages.  His lab is at all away a conference. We’ll find something soon, I promise.” She was a terrible liar. “Good-bye, John,” she added and hung up.

He stared at the phone in his hand. “Good-bye, Molly.”

He closed his eyes and when he opened them, Sherlock was standing above him.

John put his hands up and scrubbed his palms hard across his face, like he was trying to shake a bad dream.  “Molly rang.” Sherlock’s face brightened a bit, until John added, “No joy there, I’m afraid. You?”

“Mycroft will meet us at Baker Street.”

“Ronan gave me this.” He handed the paper to Sherlock who read it quickly.

“Juvenile,” he said dismissively, but the furrow between his brows deepened.

The car was waiting at the kerb outside the school. Banks held an umbrella over John’s head and helped him into the back seat. There was a steaming silver thermos in the mahogany cup holder. “Chamomile tea,” Banks said. “It might help.”

“Ta.” 

The tea did help and John wondered if it was too late to change his will and leave everything to Banks. He yawned and leaned his head against Sherlock and felt himself drifting off. If he had to die today, then driving around London in the back seat of a fancy car with Sherlock’s arm wrapped around his shoulders was not a bad way to go.

 

**_9 pm_ **

**_Twelve hours left_ **

John was back in his chair, his hands crossed under his arms because he was cold and sweating because he was hot.  Twelve hours gone and no further ahead. On the bright side, the pain in his stomach was no worse and he’d managed to keep down the tea.  Sherlock sat opposite him, staring at the wallpaper, hands steepled under his chin.

Mrs. Hudson leaned over John, “Are you all right, dear?”

Answering seemed a waste of breath, so he just nodded.

Mycroft stood by the fireplace, talking into his phone in hushed tones.  He glanced over at Sherlock and slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Shall I?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“John, as much as Sherlock believes that he is at the epicentre of every world event, there is now evidence to suggest that you were, in fact, the intended victim. Do you recall a Private Thomas Pearce?”

John’s eyes widened. “Tommy Pearce? You can’t be serious. If Tommy wanted to settle the score, he’d beat me to a bloody pulp on my way home from the pub. He wouldn’t be sending me nursery rhymes and poison darts. No fucking way.”

Mycroft’s expression was pained. “Nevertheless, I believe . . .”

“Nevertheless, my arse.” He looked over at Sherlock. “I’ve been poisoned and the best you lot can come up with is Tommy Pearce?”

“Your report resulted in his dishonourable discharge –”

“Pearce beating a fifteen year old kid half to death was responsible for that. Not me.”

“He maintained the prisoner tried to escape –” 

“Bollocks. The kid ended up in my operating theatre in Helmand. I removed his spleen and one of his kidneys. He lost a fucking eye. Pearce did that to him.”

Mycroft sighed. “Never – ”

“If you say ‘nevertheless’ again, I will punch you. Pearce was a bully and a hooligan. He should never have been in the army. I won’t apologize for having him tossed out.”

“Tommy Pearce is Ronan Pearce’s father,” Mycroft said.

John frowned. “Ronan Pearce? The boy we just talked to? I didn’t even know he had a son.”

Sherlock finally joined in. “Yes, and we think—”

“Oi. It’s _we_ now?” John shook his head. “Pearce couldn’t pull this off. Besides, I knew hundreds of men in Afghanistan. Probably pissed off more than a few.”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged glances. John wasn’t sure who he wanted to punch first.

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Mycroft said and sighed.

John tried to keep his voice calm. “Did anyone actually talk to Pearce? Or is all this theoretical?”

Sherlock frowned at him and leaned forward and put his hand on John’s knee. “He’s dead, John.”

The burning sensation crawling up John’s chest had nothing to do with the poison.  He swiped Sherlock’s hand away and shakily stood.

“Two fucking geniuses you are. Did you kill him before or after he told you what was in the dart?”

Mycroft took a step in front of Sherlock’s chair, and looked down at John. “Tommy Pearce came home from Afghanistan with a giant chip on his shoulder and developed a nasty heroin habit within six months. He was found dead three weeks ago in an alley in Brixton, heroin overdose.” Mycroft paused and turned to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, Mycroft – cautionary tale. I know.” Sherlock stood and Mycroft retreated back to the fireplace.

John felt his head spin and decided to sit down again. Sherlock knelt in front of him, looking worried.  John felt not at all guilty about worrying him. He laid his head against the back of the chair and sighed. “So there’s got to be a point to all this right? You’re not just torturing me for the fun of it?” He cracked an eye to catch yet one more look between the demon brothers.

“John, we need you to think,” Mycroft said.

John cracked open one eye and looked at Sherlock. “Really? Now you need me to think? Now?”

Sherlock put both hands on John’s knees and leaned forward until his mouth was against John’s ear. “When this is over, you can dream up all kinds of pedestrian ways to punish me for any slight you may feel during this investigation, and I mean all kinds of ways . . .”

Sherlock pulled back and looked at John. “But now I need you to think about everything you know about Pearce – his time in Helmand, his associates, his habits . . .”

“I should go to my mind palace?” He looked at Mycroft. “Although you’d probably call it a mind skip.”

John closed his eyes again and tried to think. Tommy Pearce. The only lead. Died of heroin overdose . . . heroin was easy to acquire in Afghanistan. Easy to find. Easy to use. Easy to sell . . .

“All heroin is basically the same.” He tried to stand again. Sherlock rose and took him by the arm.

“Well, I’m not sure . . .” Sherlock said, looking puzzled.

“The odds that the samples are identical . . .” His voice sounded far away.

Sherlock frowned. “What are you talking about?”

John grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders. “Molly. She said all heroin is the same. But in London, it’s different. But Vic Bellamy’s was the same. The same as mine.”

“John, what does this have to do with Molly? And Vic Bellamy was a dead end.”

“Not so dead.” John wanted to shake Sherlock for not getting it already. “Well, he’s dead, yes. Shot. Shot up rather.” John dropped his arms and stepped back, exhausted. “He’s connected to this. Talk to Molly.”

“This is tedious and getting us nowhere. “ Mycroft lifted his mobile to his ear. “And we have no time for tedious.” He walked between John and Sherlock and turned toward the door.

John was going to be sick again. So much for the healing powers of Banks’ chamomile tea.

 

Five minutes later, John brushed his teeth and swallowed another fentanyl. If he took much more, he’d risk sleeping through his own death. Where was the fun in that?

The flat was empty. “What the hell?”

His phone pinged in response. 

 

_Going to see Lestrade.  Let Banks in._

 

John opened the front door of the flat.  Banks was standing there, an umbrella in one hand, a green carrier-bag in the other.    

“My very own Mary Poppins.”

“Pish-posh, sir.”

“Sherlock says I’m to let you in.”

“If you don’t mind, sir. I’m to keep an eye on you. If you feel the need to go back to hospital, I’ll take you.”

John stepped back and let him in. “I need to lie down for a bit.”  He turned toward the hallway, then paused, leaning heavily against the sofa. “If I’m not out in an hour, come check on me.”  

“Yes, sir.”

In the bedroom, he left the light off.  He felt his way in the dark, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling he couldn’t quite see. He resisted the urge to check the time again.  Less than eighteen hours ago, he’d been lying here with Sherlock . . .

_“Morning,” John rasped, his voice rough from sleep. He rubbed himself against Sherlock, who kept his eyes shut. John couldn’t help seeing the twitch of his lips. “Faker,” he laughed and kissed him. Sherlock kissed him back, his lips warm and soft against John’s._

_“Good morning.” He slid a hand up John’s back, around the back of his neck and drew him close._

_John’s mouth opened beneath Sherlock’s and he deepened the kiss as Sherlock rubbed his thigh against John’s hardening cock. Sherlock knew him well, he could have made John come in ten seconds if he wanted to. But there had been no reason to rush, so they took their time._

_John drew a line of wet kisses along Sherlock’s collarbone, moving lower to dip his tongue into the hollows of his throat. Sherlock sighed and spread his legs apart. John moved between them, stretching out, getting comfortable._

_They thrust slowly against each other. Sherlock’s head dropped back on the pillow, his body slick with sweat. John watched as Sherlock’s eyes closed, and he bit his lip, his pale skin flushing pink._

_“Now, John,” Sherlock whispered, and John wrapped his hand around their cocks. Sherlock arched up a little and groaned. They began to move faster, harder, losing the easy rhythm until there was only skin and sweat and the sound of their bodies moving against each other._

_“John,” Sherlock choked out again, and he came with a hiss.  And then he smiled, and John thought that he would do anything – anything – to see that smile again tomorrow and the next day and every day after that._

_Later, Sherlock held him close and murmured something into his hair that John didn’t quite catch._

_He’d meant to ask him that night._

**_11 pm_ **

**_Ten hours left_ **

****

It took Greg twenty minutes and three phone calls to confirm Mycroft’s suspicion that Bellamy was Tommy Pearce’s dealer. Another ten to learn that Siobhan Pearce had to be persuaded to claim her ex-husband’s body.  According to the investigating officer’s report, “When informed of her ex-husband’s death, Mrs. Pearce appeared more relieved than upset.”

Mother dead. Father unknown. No siblings. One son, Ronan, age eight. There had been no funeral.  

Greg ran a hand through his hair. None of this made any sense. Tommy Pearce was an ex-soldier with a nasty drug habit and violent temper. Who had cared enough about him to avenge his death? Thank you notes seemed more appropriate.

But why poison?  Poison was personal and painful. Whoever did this wanted John to suffer.  Sherlock too, if he knew anything about them.

Donovan appeared at his office door, coffee mug in one hand, plastic evidence bag in the other. She looked as tired as he felt.

“We’ve got another nursery rhyme,” she said. “They found it Bellamy’s pocket.” She handed Greg the bag.

“Now? They’ve had the body for hours. Bloody hell.”

“He wasn’t important until an hour ago, was he?”

Greg shot her a warning glance and she raised her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry.”

He smoothed out the bag and read through the plastic.

 

_Hickory dickory dock_

_All eyes are on the clock_

_The clock strikes six_

_His boyfriend’s sick_

_Hickory dickory dock_

 

Sally waited until he was finished reading. “Guess I’m not the only one who thinks they’re shagging.”

“Jesus, Donovan.” 

Donovan shrugged and pointed out the door. “Now you can ask him yourself.” She ducked out the door just as Sherlock entered.

“I thought you were at Baker Street.” Greg stood. He didn’t want any kind of disadvantage with Sherlock today. “How’s John?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just turned and closed the door. He turned back to Greg. “It’s John.”

“What’s John?”

“The target. The target is John.”

Greg came around the desk with the slip of paper. “Yeah, I know. Mycroft rang. And now there’s this.”

Sherlock took the paper, read it. Greg watched his face drain of colour. He stepped forward and took him by the arm. “We found it in Bellamy’s pocket.”

Sherlock looked up at Greg and then sat heavily in the chair. “How did I not see this?”

Greg sat in the chair next to him, leaned forward and took the evidence from his hand. “It was stuffed in his trousers pocket. We almost missed it.”

“Yes, of course you lot missed it. But how did I?”

“Well, you’re a bit distracted.”

Sherlock frowned. “I am not distracted. This case . . .”

“You mean John. This is more than a case, Sherlock. We’re all worried.”

“Yes, but I am not distracted . . .”

Greg put a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “So concentrate, then. Who is doing this? Help us find him. We’re at a dead end with Pearce. Unless we want to believe an eight year old kid set this up.”

Sherlock stared at the empty coffee cup on Greg’s desk. Greg wished he could figure out a way to coax the sociopath out of the man. It was obvious to him that Sherlock was drowning in emotions – probably unfamiliar and unwanted, but this was John. The tether to the hot air balloon. Greg didn’t want to think what would happen if John . . .

“Fuck.” Greg stood, trying to dispel his own disturbing thoughts. “We’re missing something.”

Sherlock looked at Greg. “Have you talked to Molly?”

“Half an hour ago. She said the poison is good, she said. Mad scientist good. She’s been trying all day to get in contact with her old professor – some kind of genius – wrote the textbook on anti-toxins. Other than that, she just keeps re-running tests.”

“She found the heroin connection.” Sherlock’s shoulders dropped. He scraped a toe along the carpeting. “She tried to tell me . . . “

Greg’s heart ached for him. They’d been through their share of shit together, but he’d never seen Sherlock so . . . defeated.

“Sherlock, there’s something useful in that brain of yours, I know it. Can’t you wipe the knowledge that it’s John and reboot yourself?”

“Really, Detective?”

“Oh, come on, you know what I mean. If this were just some case I brought you – some random poisoning of some random citizen . . .”

“It’s hardly random.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Work with me here. We don’t have time for your giant ego right now.”  At the mention of time, Sherlock’s eyes went to the clock. Greg watched his silent calculation and he sighed.

“Who wants John dead?”

Sherlock sighed and spoke. “Alphabetically or chronologically?”

“Just give me a number.”

“Estimate? 12.”

Greg scrubbed his face. “Well, we need to narrow that down. How about those with connections to Afghanistan?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “8.”

“He was busy over there.”

“Yes, even boy scouts gather enemies.”

“Okay, so what about those in London. Or who knew Tommy Pearce. Or did heroin. Or both.”

“6, 5, 3, 1.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Now you’re taking the mick. You cannot know all that.”

Sherlock looked up at Greg. “You asked the questions, Detective Inspector. In any case, they all lead nowhere.”

“Does John have any ideas?”

Sherlock stood. “No. John knows nothing. Nothing. He has no idea why he is going to die a horrible, unnecessary, wasted death in less than twelve hours.” He began to pace the room. Greg stayed still in the chair. He knew better than to interrupt.

Sherlock turned suddenly and untied his scarf. “Must you always keep it so hot in here?” He tossed the scarf on the chair. “John believes that people are mostly good. I believe people are mostly idiots. John says that’s the same thing.” He crossed to the window and looked out.

Sherlock kept talking. “Bellamy was Pearce’s drug dealer. Pearce died of a drug overdose. John turned in Pearce in Afghanistan. So the obvious connection is Afghanistan. But why not just kill John? Why? Why? What did John do? What did I do?”

Greg suspected this might be the real question. “Let’s start over, then. How does someone get Sherlock Holmes’ attention?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “This isn’t a game.”

“Isn’t it? John’s blog’s made you out to be a bloody genius.”

He raised one eyebrow. “John may embellish events on occasion, but my deductions are real.”

“What if someone wants you to prove you’re as good as John writes you?” It made as much sense as anything else that had happened in the last twelve hours.

Sherlock sighed. “I could think better with nicotine.” He looked longingly at Lestrade’s desk.

Greg opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tossed them to Sherlock. Sherlock took one and threw the pack back on the desk. Greg came around the desk and motioned to the window. They moved to the window and Greg opened it.

Sherlock’s cigarette was half gone when he stopped in mid-drag. He turned to Greg, handed him the lit cigarette and reached for his scarf.

“What?” Greg took both cigarettes and stubbed them out in the fake plant next to the window. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck and shrugged into his coat. “Text me the address of David Sutton.”

Greg picked up his desk phone. “Molly’s professor? Why?”

“He’s not returning her calls or texts and I want to know why. In my experience, there is nothing an expert likes more than being asked his opinion. Find out everything you can about him.”

Sherlock was half-way out the door when he stopped and turned around. He crossed back to Greg’s desk and pocketed the pack of cigarettes.

****

Banks had made more tea. He carried it to the bedroom on a small tray and made just enough noise to wake John.  In those few short seconds between sleep and wakefulness, John forgot about the poison and reached across the bed for Sherlock.

Banks coughed. “It’s been an hour, sir. I’ve made tea. Peppermint.”

John slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. “You can stop calling me sir. This isn’t _Upstairs, Downstairs_ even if you are serving me tea in bed.” 

“Yes, sir.” He laid the tray on the nightstand and arranged the pillows behind John’s back.

The smell of peppermint was doing odd things to John’s stomach, but he forced himself to drink a little.

“Dr. Franklin rang while you were asleep. He wanted to know if there was any change. He said he’ll be at Barts when you . . . well, when you decide it’s time . . .”

 John looked up at Banks. “Sit down. You’re making my neck ache.”

“Sorry, sir.”  He transferred the pile of Sherlock’s dirty clothes from the chair by the dresser to the end of the bed and sat down. He was two sizes too big for the chair and he sat on the edge, looking uncomfortable.

John wasn’t sure why he felt the need to make small talk. “Have you worked for Mycroft long?”

“A few years, sir.”

“Ex-army?”

“Yes, sir. Queen’s Yorkshire Regiment.” He sat a little straighter when he said that.

“5th Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seen any action?”

“Iraq.  Two tours in Basra.”

“So you know what it’s like.” He remembered reading the stories out of Basra. The heavy casualties on both sides. The withdrawal from the city that the politicians painted as a badly managed retreat. Then there were the pictures in the _Daily Mirror_ that the Regiment later claimed were staged. The detainees who died in custody. The Regiment closed ranks and no one would testify against the Corporal accused of abuse. He was never convicted.

Pearce had never even been charged.  There had been an unscheduled hearing behind closed doors. Dishonourable discharge – _conduct unbecoming an officer_.  John found out two weeks after the fact. No one would tell him if his report had even made it into evidence. Pearce’s Sergeant came to visit John a week later, shouting at him that narking on Pearce was the real crime.

 _He was doing his fucking job. You don’t know what it’s like out there_. _You’re a bloody civilian playing at being a soldier. Step outside this compound for more than a minute and then tell me what he did was wrong._

So he did. Volunteered to be a field surgeon. Got himself shot in the shoulder for his efforts, but never changed his mind that turning in Pearce had been the right thing to do.

He never heard from Pearce again. Hadn’t thought about him in months.  Didn’t know he had a wife or kid, didn’t know he was dead until tonight.

_John, I need you to think about everything you know about Pearce – his time in Helmand, his associates, his family, his habits . . ._

_His family._

Something Pearce said to him once was nagging at the back of John’s mind. It would probably turn out to be nothing, but at the moment, it was all he had.

John handed the half-empty cup to Banks. “Can you find me the phone number of Siobhan Pearce in Hackney. I need to talk to her.”

 

Sherlock smoked three cigarettes on the way to Earl’s Court. He googled David Sutton. Boring. Pedestrian. Looked up his latest scientific articles on PubMed. The one thing that gave Sherlock a glimmer of hope was the fact that Sutton had written an article last year for the Sunday Times about famous Victorian poisoners. The leap from that to shooting John in the leg was cavernous. But in the absence of any other leads, it was a leap Sherlock was willing to consider. He looked at his watch.   Almost midnight.  He tore the watch off his wrist and stuffed it into the pocket of the Belstaff.

He reached in the other pocket and fingered the envelope of heroin. John had seen him nick it – if John made it through the next twenty-four hours he would consider giving it back. If not . . . He tapped out another cigarette and searched for a room in his mind palace where none of this ever happened. The cabbie slammed on the brakes and the cigarette flew out of his fingers.

“Here you go, mate.”

Sherlock looked out the window. They were on an ordinary street. 313 was an ordinary flat in the most ordinary of neighbourhoods. He paid the cabbie and walked to the front door. A man – late fifties, reading glasses pushed up on his head, greying hair in need of a trim – answered the door on the second ring and, after some hesitation, let him in.

Sherlock introduced himself.

“Sherlock Holmes. Of course, of course. I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen your website – your work is fascinating. We can talk in here.” He led him into a small office opposite the lounge.

“You are not returning calls. Why?”

If Sutton was surprised by the question, he didn’t let on. “I’ve only just returned from a conference in Amsterdam. My phone has been off all day. I refuse to pay roaming charges.” He sat down behind his desk. “What can I do for you?” He pointed at a chair by the window. “Please, sit down.”

Sherlock shook his head and stood by the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room.  Was he grasping at straws here?  “I have a  . . . colleague  . . . who has been poisoned. A synthetic form of aflatoxin, most likely. Your area more than mine.” He paused and looked at the bookshelf, mostly chemistry textbooks and travel guides and a row of family photos in silver frames meticulously arranged on the second shelf. He peered at a particular picture and the pieces fell into place like tumblers in a lock.

“Idiot!”

“I beg your pardon.”

Sherlock spun around and faced Sutton. “It’s so obvious. How did I not see it? Tell me, did you shoot him yourself?”

“I’ve been in Amsterdam for the last several days. I arrived home less than an hour before you knocked on my door. I’m sure there is CCTV footage somewhere that will confirm my whereabouts. There is so little assurance of privacy nowadays.”

Sherlock grabbed the picture from the bookcase and tossed it on the desk. “Ronan Pearce is your grandson.”  

Sutton picked up the picture. One finger traced the outline of Ronan’s smiling face. “Yes,” he said, a small smile playing at his edge of his mouth.

Sherlock leaned over the desk. “Tommy Pearce was your son.”

Sutton didn’t blink. “Yes. I found out when he was twelve. Ran into his mother at Tesco – I hadn’t seen her since we went our separate ways. Thomas was with her and I knew in an instant. She denied it, of course.  Silly cow.”

“Did Tommy know?”

“Not right away. But then his mother died and there was no reason not to tell him.” Sutton straightened and pointed a finger at Sherlock. “But now you can answer a question for me.”

Sherlock stepped back and waited.

“Why are you so interested in my grandson? You said you had a colleague . . .”

“John Watson. Late of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.”

Sutton swallowed but didn’t break his stare. “The man responsible for my son’s death. The world is a very small place, indeed.”

Sherlock came forward another step and Sutton reached under his desk.  Sherlock stopped.

“You hired someone to kill John. And then turned it into a game.”

“Really, Mr. Holmes, your reputation seems a bit overblown. You come into my home, accuse me of attempted murder. If anyone is guilty of murder here, it’s John Watson.”

“John was not responsible for your son’s death. He overdosed on heroin. In London.”

Sutton frowned. “He ruined my son.”

“Your son was well on his way to ruin before he met John.” Sherlock reached across the desk and grabbed Sutton by the collar. “What’s in the poison?”

Sutton struggled to push Sherlock away and brought his left hand above the desk. Sherlock saw the gun, a 9 mm Walther, and let go of Sutton’s collar. He stepped back from the desk.

“I’d suggest you change your tone. I am a businessman. Nothing more. There has always been a lucrative market for my products. Ask your brother. Any fool can make a poison, the human body is so fragile. The real art lies in creating the antidote.  On occasion, a customer wants proof of the efficacy of one of my new . . . recipes. I simply suggested several names.”

“Then why the nursery rhymes?”

For the first time, Sutton looked confused. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  
Sherlock tried to find a place in his brain that wasn’t red hot with fury, but failed. “You poisoned John Watson and now you are going to give me the antidote.” He took another step forward and Sutton’s gun came up level with his head.

“I am well within my right to defend myself in my own home. Seems a waste, though – shooting one of the world’s great intellects right between the eyes . . .”

Sherlock took two deep breaths and struggled to stay calm. “So tell me. Who was your customer?”

“A fellow enthusiast, shall we say.” Sutton lowered the gun a little.

“But there is an antidote?”

“Yes, of course. He wasn’t interested in the merchandise unless I could provide the antidote as well.”

Sherlock inched a bit closer to the desk, keeping his eyes on Sutton’s hand holding the gun. “How much?”

Sutton lifted the gun again. “Now you’re just mocking me. There is no figure I could name that would be worth more than the knowledge that John Watson is dead.”

Sherlock lost every bit of patience he’d ever possessed. With a shout, he threw himself across the desk and toward Sutton. The move surprised Sutton and he fell back, Sherlock on top of him. They tumbled to the ground, the gun skittering across the desk and falling to the floor. Sherlock pinned Sutton’s hands against the floor. “Where is the antidote?”

Sutton drew a knee into Sherlock’s groin and they smashed against the desk. Sutton grabbed a letter opener and jabbed it into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s hand flew to his neck and Sutton crawled away towards the gun. Sherlock rolled the other way, pulled the opener from his neck, blood already starting to spurt, and crawled around the front of the desk.

Sutton had made it to his feet and was aiming the gun at Sherlock.

“Thank you,” his breath coming in gasps. “You’ve helped create the perfect crime scene.”

Sherlock pressed a hand to his neck and tried to stand.

Sutton shook his head. “On your knees, Mr. Holmes. Easier to explain the forensics that way.”

Sherlock imagined four scenarios for how the next thirty seconds would go. Three ended up with a bullet in his head. And the fourth was impossible. The fourth scenario – John, saving the day at the last moment, kicking open the door and wrestling the gun away from this madman – was a desperate attempt to postpone the inevitable outcome of the first three.

And then, exactly as the scene had unfolded in his mind palace ( _minus the Wagner music_ ), the door burst open, and John stood in the doorway, shakily holding up his Browning, being propped up, it would seem, by Banks, who shouted, “Gun, sir!”

Sutton pointed his gun at John and Sherlock shouted and leapt toward Sutton. Sutton moved his gun back to Sherlock and he saw his finger squeeze against the trigger. Sherlock dove left, covered his head and closed his eyes.

Three shots rang out. Sherlock opened his eyes to see Sutton pitch face first into the carpeting. He turned around to see John collapse into Bank’s arms. Sherlock kicked the gun away from Sutton and crawled back toward John.

John looked up. “You’re bleeding.” He reached out toward Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock touched his neck. “Just a flesh wound.”

Banks set John down gently so that he was sitting on the floor leaning against the door frame. He walked around them to Sutton, leaned down, felt his neck, and turned to Sherlock, shaking his head.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John. “Why?”

“He was about to kill you.”

“He was our only link to the antidote.” Sherlock touched John’s forehead with his own.

John, struggling to talk, whispered, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” and his head dropped against Sherlock, unconscious.

****

**_3 am_ **

**_Six hours left_ **

 

Doctors—one older, several younger—congregated around John’s bed.  Sherlock watched them from the doorway, and tried to find meaning in their posture and the odd word that rose above the background noises of the ICU. But it was like watching a foreign film without subtitles and he waited until one of them led him into the lounge. He was learning that shouting at John’s doctors, however intuitive, was counterproductive. “ _Don’t piss off the people we need,” John told him. He was back in his chair, laptop propped on his knees, a half-empty glass of Glenora balanced on the arm. Sherlock had always known that this particular room in his mind palace would be John’s one day. Just not so soon._

The doctor was young, Indian or Pakistani maybe ( _well, which?),_ and her long brown fingers flew when she talked. She was nervous, stumbling over phrases like hepatic encephalopathy, serum aminotransferases and bilirubin levels. _I’m fucked, aren’t I?_ “Until we know exactly what’s causing this, all we can do is manage the symptoms.” Her tone was apologetic, sincere. Pessimistic.  “His breathing has become more laboured over the past hour, so we are considering intubation. We’re still hoping a liver becomes available, but the longer we wait . . .” _Yeah, I’m fucked_. She wiped a tired hand across her face. “Any questions?” 

Sherlock had one, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t – ask it so he shook his head and walked away.  At the lift, he leaned against the wall, found his phone and dialed the lab. He could only communicate with Molly by text or phone. Face to face, her sympathy enveloped him like fog and he couldn’t breathe. She picked up on the second ring.

“Any news?” they both asked.

When Sherlock didn’t answer, Molly said, “Not really. We’re continuing to narrow down the possibilities. We can only say what it isn’t.”

“The new list I sent you from Sutton’s computer. Did you test for those?”

“Yeah . . . no hits.”

“Then what use are you?” he shouted. “Find someone who knows what they’re doing, for Christ’s sake. Preferably before John dies.”

He hung up before she could answer.

The lift doors opened and he was about to step in when Harry stepped out.  She squared her shoulders when she saw him, wiped her eyes. He had put off telling her, but not for the reasons Lestrade had accused him of. Telling her to come was admitting he couldn’t fix this. He stepped into the lift and held the doors open with one hand.

 _John stopped typing and shot a warning glance at him. “You frighten her._ _Don’t be an ass. Not now.”_

“How is he?”

“Still dying.” _Christ, Sherlock_.  “Go sit with him if you like.” _Better_.

She nodded and turned away, then stopped and looked back at him, “This is your fault, you know. You made him believe it was all a great game – chasing murderers and solving puzzles – he was besotted with you. Head over bloody heels. Did you even notice?”

Sherlock dropped his hand and the lift doors closed.  He had six hours left and he wasn’t going to waste them making Harriet Watson feel better. 

 

Mycroft was waiting for him in the lobby.  Anthea stood beside him, looking bored and typing into her phone.

Sherlock held up a hand. “Don’t ask me how he is. Just tell me what to do next.”

“There is nothing else . . . I am very sorry.” He sounded like he meant it. “It’s over, Sherlock.”

“It’s never over,” Sherlock snapped. “There must be something we’ve missed.”

“Possibly. But you are too emotionally invested in the outcome to think logically. I hoped you had changed.”

Sherlock tried hard not to feel like he was being crushed from the inside, tried to remember how to breathe. “Fuck off.”

Anthea raised her head from her phone for a brief moment and went back to her typing.

Sherlock looked at Anthea and back at Mycroft. “Can we lose the wife?”

Mycroft nodded and Anthea retreated.  He looked at Sherlock’s neck. “You’re bleeding.”

Sherlock’s hand moved to his neck.  “I’m fine.”

John’s mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. He retrieved it and swiped the screen. 

 

_Sherlock Holmes, in the alley,_

_Gnawing at a mutton bone._

_How he craved it,_

_How he clawed it,_

_When he found himself alone._

 

He held the screen up to Mycroft.

“Hannah Bantry in the Pantry. An obscure choice. Since Professor Sutton is dead, it might be wise to determine who sent this one.”

“He could have set it up to be sent later. Although he denied knowing about the nursery rhymes. Why would he lie about that and admit everything else?”

“Why indeed?”

Sherlock hated how Mycroft’s questions always sounded as if he already knew the answers. It had taken him a good part of his life to understand that Mycroft was often as clueless as he was. He just managed to hide it better.

Sherlock paced back and forth. He needed to think. He recited the nursery rhymes again in his head. His grandmother had given him an illustrated volume of Mother Goose the Christmas before he turned eight. Mycroft had pronounced it juvenile and Sherlock hid it under his bed in his special box along with his maps and rocks and the dead bee he found on the windowsill. He recited them under his breath when his world grew too loud, the colours too bright.

But what did Hannah Bantry in the Pantry or Wee Willy Winkie have to do with John? How were these silly pieces of macabre children’s nonsense connected to soldiers in Afghanistan? Or to him? Whoever sent them was rubbish at scavenger hunts. _Maybe it’s you who’s rubbish at scavenger hunts, John whispered, not sounding much like John anymore._

He laid them out side by side in his mind. Definitely not a set of clues. More like a Greek chorus, mocking his every move of the last 20 hours.  He stopped thinking and let the images of those hours flood his mind.  _Hospital hallways, dirty hotel rooms, Bellamy’s limp body, John’s hand in his in the cab . . . the abandoned Times on the floor of the cab . . . shouting about the latest exhibition at the Huxley Gallery. . . nursery rhymes . . . the smell of rosewater and gunpowder in Sutton’s office . . . nursery rhymes . . . John’s head on his shoulder as Banks drove through the streets of London . . . Mother Goose . . .the latest exhibition at the Huxley Gallery._

“I need today’s Times.”

He startled Mycroft who had been leaning against the wall, his phone at his ear. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Times, the Times. I need the Times.”

Mycroft slipped his phone in his pocket and joined Sherlock as he hurried down the hall.

They turned a corner and Mycroft pointed to a table in the Radiation Oncology waiting room.

Sherlock swept the magazines off the table and picked up the Times. He found what he was looking for on the front page of the Arts & Culture section.

“This.” He shoved the paper at Mycroft.

Mycroft peered at the article and shook his head. “A coincidence, surely.”

“What do you say? The universe is rarely so lazy?” Sherlock shoved the paper under his arm and turned back to Mycroft. “Tell John . . .”

Mycroft looked at him with something close to sympathy. Close to.

“Tell him I’ll be right back.” He hurried down the hall to the front entrance.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft called after him.

“It’s the answer.” Or it’s the end, he thought as he jumped into a cab. “The Huxley Gallery in Whitechapel. Hurry.”

 

There were few cars on the road at that hour and the ride took less than ten minutes.  More than enough time to read the Times article about the exhibit. The writer described the show as “a series of macabre photographs of children acting out the Mother Goose nursery rhymes. Jumping Joan in a straightjacket; Jeremiah Obadiah leaning against a bloody sink; Polly Flinders with whip marks across her back. This reviewer is torn between admiration and revulsion.”

He paid the cabbie and told him to wait.

“Five minutes. With the metre running,” the cabbie said.

“Yes, yes.” 

The front doors of the Huxley Gallery were locked, the lights dimmed. Posters on either side of the door announced the new exhibition by Joseph Holborn. Sherlock pounded on the door until a yawning security guard shuffled across the lobby to the door. “We’re not open,” he shouted through the glass.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

The man blinked. “Sorry?”

For a brief moment he thought that maybe he’d gotten it all wrong after all. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, right. Hold on then.” He went to the keypad on the wall by the door and punched in a series of numbers. Sherlock pushed open the door.

“Where is it?” Sherlock said. “There should be a package.”

“There was supposed to be two of you. I was to give the package to someone called John Watson. She was very clear about that.”

“Who was?”

“Mr. Holborn’s assistant. She didn’t say her name.” He glanced up at the clock. “She did say she expected you’d be around before midnight to collect it. Made me promise to mail it to you if you never showed up. Gave me five quid for postage. It’s not so far, I probably would’ve dropped it off and saved myself the money.”

“For God’s sake, stop blathering and just give it to me.”

He walked back to the desk, opened a drawer and handed Sherlock a brown padded envelope. His name and address were printed on the front.

Sherlock tore open the envelope. Inside were six small vials of a colourless liquid and a folded sheet of paper.  He unfolded the paper.

 

_2 cc every hour for 6 hours. Then 1 cc every 2 hours._

 

His hands shook as he carefully slid the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat.

 

 

“I can’t just inject John with something you pulled out of your pocket.” Dr. Franklin crossed his arms in front of him. “At least let the lab take a look at it.” The vials were lined up on the medication cart beside John’s bed.

Sherlock felt the room slant. He reached out and held onto the end of John’s bed. The noises of the machines matched the rushing in his ears. Thankfully, Mycroft stepped in front of him.

“Dr. Franklin, if it is a question of liability, I can assure you that Sherlock will waive . . .”

“I’m still his next of kin,” Harry said, stepping forward.

Mycroft ignored her. “In fact, _not_ using the antidote may leave you open to censure in the event that you did not do everything possible to achieve a positive outcome . . .”

Sherlock stood up straight. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from hitting someone and let Mycroft do what Mycroft did best. Suggest everything, promise nothing. Soothe without substance. Speak above and around and between until there is nothing left for the opponent to do but give in.

Dr. Franklin picked up a vial from the cart and looked at it and down at a pale John. “Perhaps this is our best option . . .  if you can wait outside. I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”

Mycroft pulled Sherlock into the hallway.

Sherlock took two steps and turned back to Mycroft. “Thank you.”

Mycroft shrugged and pulled out his phone. “I’m not sure what I did. I’m not sure what anyone can do.”

“We've got the antidote.”

“There is no evidence to support that conclusion.”

Sherlock threw himself into a chair. He rubbed his hands on his knees. “It will work.”

Mycroft smiled. “Ah, so this is what faith looks like. It doesn’t suit you.”  He turned to leave. “Do let me know how it all turns out.”

 

**_7 am_ **

**_2 hours left_ **

 

Lestrade walked down the hall and sat in the chair next to Sherlock. He held out a large Starbucks coffee and a muffin. Sherlock took the coffee and waved away the muffin.

“Is it working?”

Sherlock blew out a breath. “I don’t know. He’s only had two doses so far. ” John’s voice had gone silent over the last two hours. He didn’t want to think what that meant.

“His sister still here?”

“No idea.”

Lestrade pulled out a folded paper from his jacket. “So, nothing on the envelope except your prints and the guard’s. So far. Preliminary, you understand. Artist is Canadian, from Ottawa. The show created quite the stir over there. Creepy stuff that. Still, no connection to Sutton we can find. Oh, and he says he has no assistant. We’ll confirm that, but I don’t see why he’d lie.”

“Any CCTV footage from the gallery?”

“No. Looks like the camera was tampered with.”

Sherlock pressed his palms into his eyes. He thought of Sutton, so arrogant, so sure of himself, so confused about the nursery rhymes. Someone else. Someone who knew he’d get to the museum in time. Hoped he’d get there. A test. An audition. But for what? For whom?

“Sherlock . . .” Lestrade laid a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “He’s going to make it. You got the antidote. The rest can wait.”

Sherlock sighed. The rest? What did that look like?

Dr. Franklin came out of ICU, pulling off his latex gloves. Sherlock stood and braced himself.

“He’s not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. But he’s awake and asking for you.”

 

 

**_Six Weeks Later_ **

 

John jolted out of a nightmare, eyes snapped open and a gasp barely contained. He held still, checking to see if Sherlock was still sleeping before he eased out of bed. He rubbed his hands on his face, bare feet on the cold floor. He looked back and Sherlock had turned onto his side, his arm bent and his hand curled around the space where John had been and his throat closed with something that was either tenderness or despair. He picked up his trousers and shirt and left the room to dress in the hallway.

He’d left his laptop on the kitchen table, and he took it into the living room and sat on the couch with a glass of water and a blanket. It was all routine by now. On mornings like these, he kept his mind busy and crammed with static to keep from remembering the nightmares.  Reading helped. He’d started writing again too. Not the blog, not yet. Instead, he’d sketched out the outline of a book about his time in Afghanistan. He was rubbish at writing anything longer than a blog post, but he was trying.

He’d been home from hospital for two weeks. Mrs. Hudson continued to hover, making tea and touching his shoulder each time she passed. They’d never identified who poisoned John or sent the nursery rhymes or left the antidote at the gallery, but John suspected whoever it was would be back, sooner or later.

Harry, now six weeks sober, had taken to bringing him books and biscuits and small tins of herbal tea. He didn’t want them, or her, but he didn’t know how to tell her.  She wore her disappointment, in life, in her career, in _him_ , like a scarlet letter pinned to her sleeve. He felt he’d let her down by _not_ dying, preventing her from using his death to explain everything that had gone wrong in her life. So far, Sherlock had tolerated her presence in the flat, busying himself in his room and or at the table, peering into his microscope at nothing particular, but his patience was wearing thin. He’d taken to leaving half-filled glasses of port scattered about the flat.  

Sherlock was solicitous and patient and kind. He made tea without being asked, let John use his laptop and watched crap telly with him. He managed to stay on his own side of the bed and picked up his socks. He hadn’t once dragged John into the bedroom when he was trying to write, or pushed him up against the wall, thrusting his hips into John’s erection, his tongue into John’s mouth. He’d never once let the tea get cold because he needed to fuck John that very minute or he’d never make it through the rest of the day.  He hadn’t once kissed him.

So it was all good, except for the all bits that weren’t.

 

A week later they got a case. Lestrade roared up the stairs with a file and a mission. Two dead prostitutes, one dead vicar. Three missing left thumbs.

“Right up your alley.” Lestrade took the tea offered by Mrs. Hudson.

“You do fancy thumbs, Sherlock,” she said.

Sherlock ignored Mrs. Hudson, took the file, walked into the bedroom and shut the door.

Lestrade looked at John, who just shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”

“How are you doing?” Lestrade sat in Sherlock’s chair opposite John. “You look better.”

“I feel better. Ta.”

They chatted about nothing for another thirty minutes. John gave Lestrade his word he’d text him whenever his nibs came out of the bedroom and Mrs. Hudson walked him down the stairs.

John waited another five minutes, gathering his own strength.

Sherlock opened the bedroom door as John was reaching for the knob.

“Oi, finally—”

Sherlock brushed past John and around the corner to the kitchen. John heard the tap running. More fucking tea.

“Stop.” John walked into the kitchen. “Don’t make me chase you.”

Sherlock set the kettle on the stove top and turned. “Are you feeling ill?” He took a step toward John.

“No, I just don’t feel like playing anymore.” John leaned against the table. “So, are we taking the case?”

“You are still convalescing. I will look into it.”

“I am fine,” he said. For the hundredth time.

“You are improving. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Let’s? _Let’s?_ You mean like us? Like you and me?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I was going to let you work through this,” John said, but you can’t cut me out of all of it.”

“I am not cutting you out . . .”

“I’m fine, Sherlock. How many times can I say it before you believe me?”

Sherlock walked to the living room and sank into his chair.

John followed and sat opposite him. “I almost died. But I didn’t.” He leaned forward and rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “It won’t happen again.”

Sherlock looked at him. “It will.” He spoke softly. “Guaranteed.”

“So, we’ll deal with it then. But until then . . .” He smiled and moved his hand up Sherlock’s leg.

Sherlock tensed. "It's that . . . it’s that I don't think I can do this."

John’s face fell for an instant, and he tightened his jaw and composed himself, blanking his expression, moving his hand away.

"The only thing I excel at is the work. Everything else I have ever attempted ended in disaster.” Sherlock smiled faintly. “I am, by all reliable accounts, a complete prick."

“I know you're a prick, I’ve known it from the minute we met. I knew it when I agreed to move in here. I knew what I was doing that first night and I knew who I was doing it with. "

“I will not let you die because of me.”

John got up and leaned over Sherlock. He brushed his thumb across the tender, insomnia-dark skin under Sherlock’s eye, and said, "Good. Then it’s settled. Now stand up and kiss me. Properly.”

“John, I –” he started to say but let John pull him up.

It started slow.  Sherlock pressed his lips against John. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him closer. Sherlock rested a hand on John’s hip. John forced Sherlock’s mouth open and deepened the kiss and Sherlock sighed against John’s lips.

John pulled back and looked at him. “What?”

Sherlock pulled John’s hips closer and moved his mouth to John’s ear. “I missed you.”

His breath and the words and the feel of Sherlock’s tongue as he moved from John’s ear to his mouth to his neck, made John hard in a moment.

“Bedroom,” he managed as Sherlock opened his shirt and sucked on his collarbone.

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled at John. A real smile. A scary smile. “There is the matter of punishment.”

John frowned. Then remembered. _You can dream up all kinds of pedestrian punishments . . ._ Sherlock had promised. Of course John hadn’t believed he would ever live to collect.

Sherlock pulled him toward the bedroom. John felt like he was pulling him toward something they had let get away – something they needed to find again. Like a future.

“Oh, there will be punishments, Sherlock,” he said as he closed the bedroom door with his foot. “And I wouldn’t call them pedestrian, either.”

The laugh that rose from Sherlock’s chest sealed most of the remaining cracks. Sherlock’s hands against his heart took care of the rest.

 ///

That night, Sherlock stood at the bedroom window and stared into the darkness. How many hours had he stood like this when John was in hospital, too scared to leave him, too restless to sleep. He knew John’s poisoning had been a test. He’d passed it, barely, in the nick of time and with entirely too much help. And now he waited, impatient and afraid for what came next.

“Come back to bed,” John said. “I’m cold.”

Sherlock climbed into bed and John turned and kissed the palm of Sherlock’s hand. He felt something shift in him, like the calm that comes after a storm. Maybe John was right and the worst was over. But then he felt a twisting in his gut. Maybe the calm was really just the eye of a hurricane.

**Author's Note:**

> The story is inspired by A Coffin for Starsky, one of the best h/c episodes ever written. Not just in Starsky and Hutch, but ever. Starsky is poisoned and Hutch has 24 hours to save him. Yes, the science was wonky, but there was great angst and actual hand holding and it made me love those boys forever. And then I found Sherlock and John and I was in love all over again. 
> 
> Disclaimer: The science in this version is probably just as wonky as in the original. I spent many years working in medical research, so I say this with great authority. Don't try any of this at home.
> 
> And the Mother Goose photographs in the story are based on these. They are weirdly creepy and I'm still not sure if I love them or hate them.
> 
> https://www.behance.net/gallery/1245917/Mother-Goose
> 
> And thanks always to peg22 (who did it first with the Starsky and Hutch ep The Fix) for her help. She makes all my words better.


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